


Ask Dean: Cotton Shirt, A Strange World, No Details

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [118]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Askbox Fic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Growing Old Together, Guilt, Guilty Dean, Light Angst, M/M, Memories, Old Married Couple, Post-Series, Smut, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13000683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Readers ask Dean from TCV their questions. He attempts to answer them.





	Ask Dean: Cotton Shirt, A Strange World, No Details

**Dear Dean, How’s it going? I’m gonna cut really get to the chase here. What color does Sam look best in in your opinion and do you prefer silk satin or plain cotton?**

 

It’s a good day whenever I have bacon for breakfast. But since someone forgot to pick up bacon on their grocery run yesterday, I had bran cereal and an orange this morning. 

And my coffee?

He says no one can tell the difference between regular and decaf, but god dammit, I can. 

Anyway. Hi.

Colors? For Sam? Since I’m pissed that he “forgot” my bacon (the expensive applewood stuff was on sale yesterday)… I’ll say any color that doesn’t make him look like a giant tree. Or a giant stalk of broccoli. Or a giant stalk of asparagus. Or a giant flamingo. 

Ugh, fine, I guess you want a real answer. Whatever.

Look, I’ll start by telling you the colors Sam and I avoid. Two white guys in yellow shirts? No. Nope. Nuh uh. Shouldn’t happen. Ever. Trust me. 

Also, purple? Way too much conflict there. 

White… does not bring back good memories. And shut your mouth if you’re just gonna tell me white is not a color. 

Black, though. Black is classic. And maybe you think black is simple or boring, but Sam pulls it off. Tight black jeans. A nice v-neck black shirt. Fitted black leather jacket. Even if it’s that fake pleather stuff because he says he has a conscience. Yeah. He can walk around the house in that outfit anytime. 

That’s assuming I let him walk around the house in clothes.

Also, I bet you think I’m gonna say silk, because you all have dirty minds. And okay, okay, silk ain’t bad. Far from it.

But when you wake up the morning after fucking Sam into the mattress, after a long night of pulling his hair, biting down on his neck and shoulders, blowing him then him blowing me. Then switching positions to make things last a little longer. Fucking into him. Watching him ride me because he’s always so damn concerned about my knee. Leaving bruises on his thighs and ass. Laughing when his hair gets in his face. Pounding up as he grinds down. Finding that sweet spot and the exact rhythm that makes his mouth form a shape that reminds me he was just sucking my cock not long ago. Holding back for him to take as long as he needs and wants until everything feels tighter, hotter, louder. Until Sam comes, screaming as loud the headboard banging against the wall. It’s messy and sticky and needy and hot and holy shit can he paint me white. At the same time I’m coming from the pressure and the satisfaction that no one can bring out that side of Sam but me.

Yep.

Nothing like that morning after.

When I wake up and Sam’s got coffee ready, but he’s wearing my favorite Zep shirt and nothing else. 

That shirt’s cotton.

Thanks for the question.

-DW

 

**Hey Dean! You mentioned earlier what your fondest memory of Sammy was, but, if we were to ask him the same question, what do you think his fondest of you would be?**

 

Hey, hey, hey. Easy on the Sammy. 

I’d like to say his best memory of me is how I rocked his world every night. You know. Sexually. 

Fine, fine. I’ll be serious. I mean, yes, Sam should never forget the sexual prowess that I brought to our bed, sheets, mattress, and headboard. Or the dryer. The kitchen counter. The dining room table. Both couches in the living room. The arm chair in his office. His office chair. The bed in the guest bedroom. The car. That one club, that other club, and that one really dark corner in that dueling piano bar. 

Well. You get the picture.

Speaking of pictures.

There’s a lot to remember. There’s a lot I hope Sam will remember. Fireworks. Highways. Back roads. Pacts. Prayers. Promises. 

Or like, that time I made him chicken and rice soup from scratch when he had bronchitis two years back. 

Or that time at Senora Gonzales’ granddaughter’s baptism party, in the church basement. I asked him to dance. There was this kick ass band there, and they played something slow, nostalgic, bittersweet, and perfect. I put my hand on the small of his back, over his pressed dress shirt, and I told him to stand up straight dammit. No slouching. 

I remember that song. 

“Cuando te hablen de amor y de ilusiones, y te ofrezcan un sol y el cielo entero. Si te acuerdas de mi no me menciones porque vas a sentir amor del bueno. Y si quieren saber de tu pasado. Es preciso decir una mentira. Y que vienes de alla, de un mundo raro. Porque yo adonde voy, hablare de tu amor como un sueno dorado.” 

It sounds so much better in Spanish. It sounded great on that dance floor, which was just a space we cleared free for the band. Surrounded by folding chairs, plastic table cloths, and paper plates. The smell of my cologne, his shampoo, holy water, and fried chicken.

“When they talk about love and illusions, and they offer you a sun and the whole sky. If you remember me, don’t mention me. Because you’re going to feel good love. And if they want to know about your past, it’s necessary to say a lie and that you come from a weird world. Because where I’m going, I’ll talk about your love like a golden dream.” 

It was all LED candlelight and I might have stepped on his foot once or twice. 

And maybe I held my breath once or twice. 

“Si quieren saber de mi pasado es preciso decir una mentira. Les dire que llegue de un mundo raro. Que no se del dolor, que triunfe en el amor y que nunca he llorado. Que no se del dolor, que triunfe en el amor. Y que nunca he llorado.” 

I fixed his tie halfway through the song. Brushed back a piece of his hair. Made eye contact, then looked away, then looked back, then away again, then back just to close my eyes in the moment.

“If they want to know about my past it’s necessary to say a lie. I’ll tell them that I came from a weird world. That I don’t know pain, that I triumphed in love and I’ve never cried. That I don’t know pain, that I triumphed in love, and I’ve never cried.”

I hope he remembers that moment.

And so many more.

-DW

 

**What age did Dean start liking Sam? When did he start to notice Sam other than an annoying little brother? And finally who made the first move and how old were they when one of them did?**

 

Well, shit. Getting right to it, huh?

Fuck, I don’t wanna put all this out there. 

The details are ours. I’ll give you some of the basics. Bare minimum. Because c’mon. You’re asking me to talk about some shit that’s… classified. And I’m not about to go public on all that. Some things I just don’t want to or need to spell out. Capisce? 

I mean, look. We all have guilt.

Some of us more than others.

And I can’t tell you in great length how it started, who made the first move, and the exact moment Things Were Different. I just can’t. It’s enough for me and Sam to know.

Since some of you know, I’ll just repeat: Sam was twelve. I was sixteen. Sam says he always knew. I call bullshit. I didn’t always. Not like that.

Sam might tell you. In his way. 

But me? Specifics and details? Can’t do it. Won’t do it. 

-DW

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for submitting asks! :D 
> 
> he got real defensive on that last one, yikes. 
> 
> i'm going through some tough times with health things. this has kept my spirits up and my mind distracted. to send an ask, you can comment here, but it's better to drop an ask at compo67.tumblr.com. you don't need an account to submit an ask and you can remain anon. :)
> 
> comments are love!


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